


And Watch The Heather Grow

by GoldenPaws



Series: The Chains That Bind Us [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, And kind of gets one, Angst, Chains, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fenrir needs a hug, Gen, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Isolation, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Memory Loss, Parent Loki (Marvel), Parent-Child Relationship, Sad, Sad Ending, Whump, but it's still pretty sad, gotta be honest, kinda i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 20:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20477087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenPaws/pseuds/GoldenPaws
Summary: There are no sounds. Just the sound of his deep, ragged breathing, and his sluggish heartbeat. There was a time when the air was filled with his screams and cries for help, for days on end, until his throat was dry and his jaws hurt even worse than they already did. These days, it’s quiet. He no longer screams for help. So there is nothing left to listen to than the wind and his own body. And the chains, of course. They rattle whenever he moves a little too far. A long time ago, those tiny sounds used to startle him, making it impossible to falls asleep for longer than a few moments before jerking awake again. Days when he’d lie awake, staring into mist, trying to listen for... Anything, really. He knows that he has good ears, that he used to be able to pick up on even the smallest sounds, sounds that no one else was able to hear. They never escaped his notice. But here... There’s nothing, no matter how much he strains to catch something. There is only silence.





	And Watch The Heather Grow

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something that popped into my head. I've been browsing through the Edda recently, then got sucked back into the Marvel fandom, and now we're here -.- The idea of Loki, his children and their relationships always fascinated me, as well as the question of how that would fit into the MCU. So... I wrote it ^^ well, at least the first part of it. Might add another part if people like. So lemme know what you think, I'd really love the feedback!
> 
> Love,  
Goldie

The world is quiet. Quiet and cold and grey.

He’s alone, far away, lost and hidden in the cool mist. No sounds, no color, nothing but this tiny isolated world he finds himself in every day. There’s no sun, so there is no time, either, no way for him to tell how long he’s already been here, how much time he’s already lost in this place at the end of the world. He feels that it must’ve been a long time, though. Many years, if not his whole life. The thought leaves an even worse taste in his mouth than the blood that is pooling on his tongue.

The air smells like the sea, like salt and sand and dry pieces of wood. Some days, a gust of wind flies and by and brushes over his face and body, and he takes those opportunities to lift his nose towards the sky and take a few deep breaths. Deeply inhaling those strange, far away scents, as he wonders if the sea might be close. It certainly smells like it, like wet sand and brittle wood and cold water. They tell him about another world, far away, somewhere beyond the mist. A world he can barely remember, one that seems infinitely far away. A world he will never see again, no matter how much time will pass. But the sea might be near. He can’t be sure. He can no longer remember where he even is. Maybe the sea is no more than a few strides away. It doesn’t matter. He won’t live to see it again. But he enjoys the winds that brush over his aching body, he enjoys the smells and the memories they bring to him, as though they awaken something sleeping peacefully inside of his mind. It’s all so very far away, but every now and then, for a few short moments, he can almost grasp at it again. And once the wind is gone again, he’s left alone in the quiet.

There are no sounds. Just the sound of his deep, ragged breathing, and his sluggish heartbeat. There was a time when the air was filled with his screams and cries for help, for days on end, until his throat was dry and his jaws hurt even worse than they already did. These days, it’s quiet. He no longer screams for help. So there is nothing left to listen to than the wind and his own body. And the chains, of course. They rattle whenever he moves a little too far. A long time ago, those tiny sounds used to startle him, making it impossible to falls asleep for longer than a few moments before jerking awake again. Days when he’d lie awake, staring into mist, trying to listen for... Anything, really. He knows that he has good ears, that he used to be able to pick up on even the smallest sounds, sounds that no one else was able to hear. They never escaped his notice. But here... There’s nothing, no matter how much he strains to catch something. There is only silence. And the chains, though they hardly rattle anymore. He no longer sees a reason to move. His fetters won’t give, no matter how much he tries. The more he fights, the deeper the chains cut into the flesh of his legs, and if he’d keep on fighting they’d bleed him dry. In the beginning, he used to fight them with all of his strength, but they always held. He’d fight until the white of his bones shone through his torn flesh, and only then would he take a rest, trying to bite them off his ankles. He’d scream to the skies and curse and beg and pray, but nobody seemed to listen. He’d try to bite off his own legs, if only it meant to break free, but he never quite managed to bite through his own bones. It was no use. So, he stopped fighting.

Instead, he lies on the ground and stares into the distances, into the mist. Watches the heather slowly grow towards the sky, gently waving back and forth. Somedays their tiny petals brush his nose, and then he closes his eyes and imagines them to be fingers and hands, and a gentle, loving caress that soothes some of his aches. His body hurts. His legs are cut up, his jaw throbs, and he trembles with every breath. The heather smells sweet and lulls him into an easier sleep, allowing him to rest, if only for a short while. He dreams, mostly. Or remembers, though he’s no longer quite sure. It doesn’t matter, as long as his dreams give him piece. He likes to think what he sees there are memories, of gentle hands, and laughter. Chasing through wide fields of golden-yellow grass, and blue skies. There are specs of color, and warmth and love as he dreams of curling up under the stars with strong, gentle arms holding him close. His heart aches in those dreams, and whenever he startles awake, a soft whine escapes him. It’s even more painful to wake up to the grey mist and cold air after this form of bliss, but he wouldn’t ever give them up, no matter how many times his heart shatters. And he grieves, either for all the things he has already lost, or all the things he would’ve been able to have. Either way, he cries. Quietly, though it doesn’t matter. There is no one around to hear him.

He is so tired. His muscles ache, his jaws throb. Blood keeps dripping into his mouth until he gags and spits it out onto the ground. The earth is sticky with is, but he can’t move away from the soiled dirt, because he doesn’t want to anger the binds. They will cut him again, and he has already bled enough. He is tired. Staring into the mist, he sometimes imagines he can hear distant sounds. Voices and laughter. Someone calling names that sound vaguely familiar. He tries to answer, to call out, but his throat is too dry and his tongue too swollen. After a while, the sounds fade away again, and he closes his eyes and tries to forget. There are days when he is sure there is more he should remember, but most of the time his head feels there’s nothing left but brittle bone and sadness. Time passes, and he watches the heather sway in the slight breeze, watches the grey sky where no clouds ever pass, watches the blood pool under his head, watches the binds but into his already tender flesh just a little more. Takes deep breaths and tries to catch another smell that might help him remember, and closes his eyes to imagine the waves crashing at the shore, imagines what the water might taste like. His thoughts can’t carry him all that far, he has forgotten too much for that already, but they can at least help him escape for just a little while. Maybe there were other things, other memories, but he is no longer sure. Maybe he was never... Maybe this is where he always used to be, locked away in this tiny world, always alone, always bleeding. But then he wonders if that is possible, because there is that tug at his heart, this strong longing for something he knows he lost a long time ago, something that’s somewhere out there, and he knows there must’ve been more at some point in his life. He simply can’t remember anymore. It’s yet another reason for the grief that sometimes washes over him. He closes his eyes again and allows it to swallow him. The sadness presses down on his heart and drowns everything else out.

And he waits. For what, he no longer knows, and maybe he never knew. But he waits. Somedays his hearts beats a little faster, a littler harder, and on those days he is anxious and stares into the mist, watching and listening and waiting. His muscles tremble and his jaw clenches, and he feels more alive than at any other moment. Other days, his ears twitch when he’s sure he can hear quiet footsteps just beyond his field of vision. They seem to circles him, cautious and almost uncertain, skirting around at the edge of the mist. He follows them with his eyes, his ears, and his heart pounds in his chest. But there’s no fear in him, only...Excitement. It’s strange, almost foreign, but he relishes it, and quietly whimpers when the footsteps leave him again. The loneliness seems all the more startling once he can no longer hear them moving cautiously through the mist. But he continues to wait. No matter if he doesn’t know what for, or how long he will have to be patient - He waits, and feels his heart soar with every tiny sound, every small hint and every movement that lets him know that there is someone out there, not quite reaching him, but trying to. And he know, without the shadow of a doubt, that whatever is out there will be worth every moment spent in agony. So he will wait, for as long as it takes.

He wakes to the sound of quiet steps. His ears twitch and he blinks a few times. Someone is moving through the mist, and he is closer than he was before. Someone is here, someone... Is looking for him. His muscles tense and his heart starts to pound, but again, there is no fear. Eyes narrowed he lowers his head ever so slightly and takes a few deep breaths. Where... And then he sees it - A silhouette, darting through the mist, appearing and reappearing as he follows it with his gaze. The movements are quiet and cautious, but he is still sure that he has no reason to fear. A small sound escapes him, eager and excited, even though he doesn’t know why. But there is a sense of happiness and joy in his heart that makes him shiver and shake in place, until the chains rattle and the binding bites into his flesh. He doesn’t care as his eyes track the shadow moving in circles around him, each time coming just a little closer. This is it, this is what he’s been waiting for, for as long as he can remember, this is the reason he still opens his eyes, and the source of all of his memories and all his grief.

And then the mist parts, and someone steps forward. It’s a man, tall and slender, with raven black hair and clothed in a nondescript black tunic. Wide, green eyes land on his and shake him out of his stupor. He can feel his heart soar at the sight of him as a long, pitiful whine tears itself from his raw throat. He knows this man, he knows him, and the happiness that floods his body and mind almost makes his legs buckle. The man looks at him, eyes filled with fear as he seems to freeze for just a moment before he sobs, low and broken, and starts to move again, three, four, five long strides, and then he reaches him.

“Oh, my poor boy”, he whispers, and then his arms reach around him and pulls him close.

Relief washes over him as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. His scent, strong, yet soft and familiar fills his lungs and chases the fear away, soothes all those aches and takes his breath away. It’s the smell of home, safe, loved, and he relishes in them as he pushes closer. And there are strong, yet gentle arms wrapping around him and holding him close, make him feel small, so much smaller than he is by now. He greedily presses into that warmth, that affection and love, huffing and whimpering and struggling, even as the bindings cut and bite and tear- But none of that matter, because all he cares about is getting just a tiny bit closer. There it is, the one thing he’s been waiting for, the one thing he is always waiting for. It makes tears pool in his eyes as he does his best to hold on, to not lose this again.

“I am so sorry”, he hears him whisper, “it took me so long to reach you. I am so sorry you had to wait for such a long time, Fenrir.”

Fenrir... And yes, he remembers. That is his name. Sometimes he forgets, but then- Then his father finds him again and reminds him. His father, who has his arms wrapped around his neck, hands buried in his dirty, bloody fur, already gently scratching and massaging and warming him. The mist is always so cold, and it’d soaked through his thick fur until he was trembling. But now he feels warm. A deep, low rumble makes his chest vibrate as those gentle hands reach behind his ears and he slowly lowers himself to the ground. His father follows him down, kneeling in front of him, carefully cradling his bleeding snout in his lap. Fenrir remembers a time when he was small enough to curl up in his father’s arms, light enough to be carried to bed, and young enough to nudge those hands for just a little more affection.

“My poor son”, his father murmurs lowly as his hands wanders over his massive skull, prodding and examining him, “what have you done to yourself?”

Fenrir knows he isn’t looking for an answer, so he only sighs tiredly and whines as his father starts to brush the fur back, revealing scars and cut open flesh and wounds and blood. He hisses and curses lowly as he goes, doing his best to clean away the blood, even though they both know it’s no use. The wolf lets him do as he pleases, enjoying the gentle touches that only mean to soothe and caress. Then, there’s a moment of stillness, and then a shudder runs through his huge body. His father’s magic starts to run over his cut up flesh, feeling cool against his overheated skin as he starts to slowly heal the broken body in front of him. This, Fenrir remembers. Magic, flowing from his father’s hands and taking away the pain. He can feel the familiar buzzing under his skin as his own magic tries to answer, too weak and depleted to truly call out for its counterpart. Still, his father only shushes him as he pushes his magic just a little deeper, into his tense muscles and cracking bones and joints. Tears of relief are running down his face and his tail wags lazily on the ground, making his father chuckle slightly. It’s a wet, shaky sound. Fenrir wishes to one day hear him laugh loudly, freely again. He remembers it to be the most beautiful sound.

“I have been searching for you for weeks now. They must’ve changed the spell work again, trying to keep me from reaching you”, his father mutters in the darkness, “they thought they could keep me from you somehow. Of course... They couldn’t be more wrong. I never would’ve stopped searching.”

His hands reach for his legs, his paws, and Fenrir whimpers as he flinches away. It’s instinct, nothing more. He knows he has nothing to fear from his father, his keeper, his protector. But the body has a mind of its own, and the flesh only remembers pain.

“Try to keep still, little one. I only want to try and heal your wounds. Take away the pain.”

When he reaches for his paws again, the big wolf remains still. The magic returns, and he suppresses he high whine of relief as the deep, throbbing pain ebbs away ever so slightly. His father’s brow furrows in concentration as he works through the blood, pus and flayed open skin, trying to mend as much as possible. Fenrir can see tears shining in his green eyes, but he knows they’ll never fall. His father never cries in front of him. Still, he wishes there were no tears. Seeing his father so sad makes him want to... Make it all go away. It’s a silly thought, but it returns every time he comes to him.

For while they’re quiet. Fenrir lays back and keeps as still as possible, while his father keeps on healing his wounds. The wolf’s magic keeps on reaching out, and the sorcerer’s magic responds in kind, as the flesh slowly mends and the blood washes away. He listens to their breaths and their heartbeats, deeply inhales and bathes in the wonderful scent that makes memories bloom behind his closed eyelids. Days spent in the sun, hunting game in the forests, splashing in the cool river water, and nights under the never ending sky, listening to the stories of far away worlds and falling asleep in his father’s embrace. He is sure, now, that those are memories, of all the things he’s lost. There’s sadness tugging at his heart again, but he pushes it away for now. His father is here, that’s all that matters. There will be more than enough time for that once he’s alone again. All too soon, his legs are healed, and his father is moving back towards his head.

“Let me see, puppy.”

The wolf whines, but his father doesn’t budge. Gently hands grab his jaw and pulls it towards him, forcing him to look into his green eyes. Those eyes... The only color he cares about. They always brighten up his existence, remind him of all the good things in all of the worlds.

“I know it hurts. I only want to make it better. Please, my little boy... Let me see.”

His voice carries nothing but concern and affection, and Fenrir knows he means well. Still, the fear of pain has him hesitating for just a moment longer before huffing and gently pushing his snout against his father’s waiting hands. It earns him a smile and he holds onto it as those hands coax him to open his jaws just a little wider. Blood immediately starts to run down the roof of his mouth, where that cursed sword is stuck into the soft flesh. His father hisses and he can feel his magic coiling into a tight knot, hissing and snarling as well. The pain comes back immediately, and Fenrir closes his eyes as he whimpers, shuddering and doing his best to stay still. It will only hurt worse if he tries to wrench free. So, he stays still as his father presses cool hands against the roof of his snout, gently pushing magic into the festering wounds, clearing away blood and puss and saliva. Slowly, he heals, and the blood gets washed away for a little while. His father hums lowly, and finally lets go of his maw. Fenrir doesn’t hesitate before pushing closer, burying his snout in his father’s clothes, greedily inhaling. The attire smells of smoke and ashes, a little bit of fresh snow and cracking ice. No matter what time of the year, father always makes him think of winter. There’s also the smell of old books and ink, and the distant trace of mead. The smell of home, and Fenrir basks in it. Some days, it clings to his fur, and he’ll spend the next days with his own snout buried in it, desperate to make it last, though it never does. His father chuckles and starts to pet his rough fur again, carding his gentle fingers through the dirty pelt, and Fenrir lets out a sigh. The pain is gone for now, a distant buzzing in the back of his awareness as he nuzzles closer and nudges his father’s chest. It earns him another chuckle and a soft pull on one of his ears, playful and familiar. He remembers that, too. How they’d run through the forests and chase each other, although he was always, always faster than anyone else, running under the sun and the moon and the stars, and how much he misses ist, being able to run free, no more fetters, no more chains...

“Are you feeling better now, Fenrir?”

He rumbles lowly in return, and father understands. There was never any need for spoken words between the two of them.

“That’s good to hear. Still, if only I could...”, but he breaks off, only shaking his head sadly.

In the beginning, he used to try to get the sword out of his snout, spent hours upon hours with his hands gripping it tightly as he pulled and Fenrir screamed, blood pouring out if the cuts and his whole body shaking in agony. They have stopped trying a long time ago. Now, they let it bleed and fester and infect until the next time, and there simply is nothing to be done about this. Fenrir has accepted it by now.

“But I have not given up, my sweet boy.”

His father, not so much.

“Not yet, and I probably never will. I know there has to be a way to break those cursed bindings, and to set you free. I know of some dwarfs that might know more about some of those ingredients that were used, and I am sure I can find a way to make them tell me all they know...”

He still talks about the bindings, about the things used to craft them, the dwarfs and their secrets, of all the things he can somehow connect to Fenrir’s tragedy, and the wolf is sure he still believes he’ll find a way to break them one day. There were times when he used to believe that, too. His father is very intelligent, a cunning strategist, an excellent sorcerer with unparalleled abilities, and once he has set his mind to something, he never falters until he has reached his goal. But Fenrir is tired, and it has been so long. He is no longer sure what to believe, though he has no doubt that his father will continue his search for yet another eternity - He simply no longer believes that he will ever live to see him succeed. It pains him to think about it, about his father one day coming here and only finding a cold body, about leaving him alone in this cruel world. And so he only listens as he keeps on telling him about the dwarfs he met a few worlds away, muttering about their greed and arrogance once he asked his questions, cursing them for demanding more than he could give and laughing at his desperation. And all the while his hands card through thick fur and scratch Fenris’ scalp as his body grows heavier and heavier with each moment that passes. Father is here, and so everything is alright. He, too, wishes for his freedom, but he has found that hope can sometimes be more painful than acceptance. For now, he rests. Listens to his father’s quiet voice, presses into the familiar warmth and affection, and breathes in his comforting smell. And everything is alright for just a moment.

Fenrir knows when it’s time, and he wants to cry and whimper as he father’s caress begins to falter. Desperately pressing back into his hands, nuzzling his maw against his chest, he tries to hold on, for just a few more moments, and his futile attempts are met with a low sigh and his father pressing his forehead into his fur.

“I know, my little boy. But I can’t stay any longer. You know I can’t cloak myself forever.”

Of course Fenrir knows. His father explained it many times before, apologizing and fighting his own tears, but it didn’t change anything. They were already looking for him, most likely, and if they found out he knew a way to his chained son, they would imprison him, throw him into a dark cell and look the door forever. They can’t let that happen. It still hurts, though. The contrast between love and loneliness becomes that much sharper, and cuts deeper than the fetter ever could. So Fenrir whines and gnaws at his father’s tunic, which is drenched in his own rotten blood. He doesn’t want him to leave, he doesn’t want to be alone again, and as his father takes a shaky breath and wraps his arms around his neck, knows that he doesn’t want to leave, either. But some things can’t be changed.

“I’ll come back. I promise, Fenrir. And I will keep on looking, and someday I will find a way to free you. Do you understand? I will never give up on you.”

Fenrir lifts his head and stares into those wide, green eyes, and he knows it’s the truth. There’s nothing but devotion and fierceness shining back at him. His father never lied to him, not once, no matter what everybody else might think, he was always honest with his son. So he nods and leans forward to carefully lick his father’s cheek, who laughs and playfully bats him away. It used to always be like this, he remembers. He is sure he remembers, now. He probably won’t be, once he’s alone again.

“Try to look after yourself while I’m gone, alright? You need to keep still, try not to aggravate your wounds. There’s nothing to be done about the sword, but I will think of something. And someday, I will find a way to free you. Remember that, Fenrir. You will be free again. We both will be.”

He kisses Fenrir’s forehead and the wolf closes his eyes as he feels those hands draw away. It aches, once the warmth leaves him, once the magic ebbs away, and leaves nothing but dull pain and cold, and longing in his chest. He suppresses a whine, a cry, really, and simply allows his head to rest on the dirty ground again. Listening to the quiet footsteps again, as they now retreat, making room for the all too familiar silence that settles inside of his ears once again. His muscles tremble and he has to suppress the urge, the instinct to jump up and run after his father, not caring about the chains anymore. It happened before, many times, whenever it was time to say goodbye. But Fenrir has learned, and so he keeps his eyes closed and resist the temptation of watching his father leave. The footsteps grow quieter with every step, until suddenly, they are gone.

Silence, again. The wolf shudders as it sinks into his bones and makes him heavy and tired and awakens all those aches he was able to forget about for just a few moments. A sigh escapes him as he blinks his eyes open. As always, he hopes that his senses deceived him, that his father is still sitting right in front of him, smiling and pulling at his ear, teasing him about hibernating like an old, grumpy bear... But no. There is no one. He is alone again. No sounds, no smells, only the grey mist encompassing his world. Fenrir takes a deep breath. The faint scent of old books and ice floods his lungs, and calms his racing heart. The chains rattle quietly as he shifts and lowers his head on his front paws once again, the sword digging into the roof of his snout. Blood begins to pour onto his tongue and he wants to gag. Instead, he turns his head and swallows it, along with a cry. And watches the heather grow towards the sky.

He’s waiting again. He always is. And even though he already has trouble remembering what for again, he knows, without a doubt, that it will be worth it.


End file.
